The Song of Solomon
by potteresque-ire
Summary: HPDM. An unspoken love that spanned across decades. Told from the perspectives of 15 people, each a witness to a facet of the bond that joined the two men as one. Harry and Draco never shared a life together after Hogwarts. DH Compliant. 101807 Repost
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

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**  
THE SONG OF SOLOMON **

**Prologue**

_Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm; _

_For love is as strong as death, jealousy as cruel as the grave; _

_Its flames are flames of fire, a most vehement flame._

_Many waters cannot quench love, nor can the floods drown it._

_If a man would give for love all the wealth of his house, it would be utterly destroyed._

_- Song of Solomon 8:6-7_

"When I'm gone, can you promise to come here every now and then?"

"Dad.."

"I'm an old man, Lily. Death is nothing to be afraid of."

"I'll visit, I promise. Why? Is it for mom?"

"For her, of course. And for me."

"Should I come whenever it rains?"

"You've noticed."

"Yes, because I'm in the company of a very stubborn someone who's bound to catch pneumonia one day. Why wouldn't you use an Impervious charm?"

"Because I like the rain."

"But still - "

"Everything's so... harmonized. I'd like to be a part of it."

"You are already. Look at all the mud on you. Can you let me plant the flowers? Please?"

"Thanks Lily. They go under there."

"Here?"

"A little more towards the left. Yes, that's wonderful."

"You know what you've just said about the rain? I never thought you're such a romantic."

"No, that's not what I'm -"

"Dad, your ears are turning red."

"So?"

"Spill. Who was it. When was it. How was it."

"Lily!"

"Skeeter. Rita Skeeter."

"You're worse than your brothers when you try."

"Stop evading the question."

"Alright… there was a kiss."

"And? How was it?"

"Wet."

"You'd said the same thing about your first one."

"Things do get wet when it rains."

"Right, Romeo. So, did your love shed tears for you again?"

"I don't know… That's why we kissed in the rain."

"Oh?"

"I promised I would never see the tears."

"Dad, are you really that bad of a kisser?"

"Your mum surely didn't think so. And before you interrogate me further, I think it's time to go home."


	2. Chapter 1: The Parting

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

**  
THE SONG OF SOLOMON**

**Chapter 1: The Parting**

Madame Pomfrey always followed the same routine before retiring for the night.

That evening was no different; she had recorded in her diary the day's events in the hospital wing - who was admitted and why, immediate measures taken to relieve the ailment, longterm treatments planned for full recovery. It didn't take long. She had only one patient under her care, and his wounds had been mostly healed before arriving at the hospital wing.

She whispered a _Nox_ and headed out of her office. The silverware that had accumulated during the day sat by the wash basin, and after placing them in what was once a pewter cauldron, she conjured a fire that blanketed the contents in blue shimmering flames.

As she waited for the purge to complete, her ears seemed to catch a hushed conversation. It was difficult to tell, the raindrops chiming a boisterous symphony against the windows. She crooked her neck and peered between the privacy screens that cast a long shadow from the nightlight of the only occupant.

Draco Malfoy indeed had company. Madame Pomfrey stood and was about to request the visitor to leave, wondering why she had not heard him enter in the first place. Must be the storm, she thought, but from Draco's quiet composure he didn't seem bothered. For once she considered letting it be; she had seen the young man once or twice during the school year and he seemed ill and distressed. Companionship and well wishes would surely boost his spirits.

Yet, when she squinted her eyes and saw the shock of black hair and clothes that were sizes too big for the lean frame below, she hesitated. The rivalry between these two were infamous, and she had, even in the quiet corners of the hospital wing, heard the rumors that Harry Potter was the reason why her patient was here in the first place.

Perhaps he was here to apologize, she thought. It could be her wishful thinking, but the world could certainly appreciate more reconciliation. Schoolyard rivalry might seem laughably trivial, but so were the rationale behind most wars - such as the one raging outside the gates of Hogwarts. Arguments regarding bloodlines, eloquent and pompous they might be, crumble to pettiness in the pain of death and separation. The suffering was no less for the defeated than the victor, for the lone soldier than the commander. She had been a Healer long enough to understand that.

Her mind made a decision as she tiptoed towards the screen; years of working among patients had taught her stealth worthy of a black cat. She had no intention to eavesdrop, only a desire to observe and appease should a fight break out.

Draco was quiet, his eyes flickering on pale fingers twisting among the white sheets. His jaw was clenched nevertheless, betraying an effort to hold off, to resist. Harry stood at the other end of the bed, his face out of view; an outpour of emotions was nevertheless evident from his uncharacteristically animated arm movements and hurried, forceful whispers.

Moments later the hushed talking stopped and Harry stepped closer, his legs half leaning against the nightstand. Draco's head had bowed even lower, his features faded into obscurity among the shadows of the dim lamplight.

Madame Pomfrey took a silent breath as she watched Harry stretching out a hand to brush the pointed chin, surprised by the gentleness of the touch.

Draco, however, didn't seem to appreciate the gesture; his hand released the fabric of his bedcover and pushed away the offered. The head sunk further, the hair falling to form a curtain that masked his face.

Persistent, Harry's fingers reached back for a touch on the cheek, only to be shoved away with greater force. He proceeded to settle on the bedside, supporting his weight on his elbows as he bent and tried to meet the eyes of the other man.

The blond jerked his head sideways, desperate to escape the intense scrutiny. A silk sleeve, emerald-colored adorned with an intricate knot woven by a silver ribbon, made a quick, forceful horizontal sprint behind the blond strands still concealing the face, the soft fabric wavering in sync with the heaving of his chest.

Harry finally seemed to recognize the source of Draco's turmoil; he rummaged a piece of tissue from his jean pocket and gently set it on the bedcover. Brief silence ensued before his lips moved in a low whisper. A gentle reassurance perhaps? A promise? No matter, for it failed to achieve the desired effect; the blond turned further and shook his head.

Harry exhaled and said something more. The blond hair swayed more vigorously, the pajama sleeves making such frequent trips to the flesh below that eventually they stayed there, their hem clutched in whitened knuckles. The exchange repeated, each more curt and aggressive than the last.

Then it all happened, faster than the blink of an eye.

Harry rose, strode to the other side of the bed, and yanked the blanket away. His right arm, lean yet muscular, stretched and caught both of Draco's wrists in a tight grip and dragged the injured man out of bed to the window.

Madame Pomfrey let out a silent gasp as she fumbled for her wand.

With his free hand Harry charmed the glass pane, which swung on the hinges and hit its limit with a bang; Draco's face remained resolutely downturned as the rain sputtered into the room, fine and glistening like a cascade of shooting stars. Harry closed into him, two bodies melted into one as the soaked fabric adhered to the skins underneath; the captive wrists remained held between them, pressed against Harry's chest, rising and falling with every erratic breath they shared.

Harry removed his spectacles and dropped them on the floor; his green eyes, ever more brilliant against the wet gleam on his face, searched the man in front of him as his grip finally loosened. He whispered again, his chin tilted towards the rain as he spoke, lips curled into an almost shy smile; the words ended with a gentle hand combing through the blond tresses, tucking them behind the ear.

The motion was only reciprocated by the slow blossoming of slender fingers. Freed from all constraints, the hem of the emerald sleeves, heavy with the burden of rain, slid downwards. Harry's eyes followed the retreat of dark fabric, then, as if blinded by the paleness underneath, a hand returned with violent swiftness to press the fabric firmly against Draco's left arm, to stop it from falling further. All that remained visible between the taut fingers was the silver knot, delicate and ethereal, its two long trains draping across pale knuckles, fluttering gently as if ready to take flight into the storm.

Harry's jaws clenched shut and his throat throbbed hysterically; he must have let out a strange sound, for Draco finally looked up, his drenched face twisted in what could be a smile or a grimace, the grey in his eyes an unreadable mix of sorrow and irony. He raised his free but trembling hand to the face in front of him, a tender brush under the dark eyelashes before lost among the locks that raged defiantly in the rain.

A flash of lightning slashed across the sky, rendering the scar on Harry's forehead and the freshly healed gash on Draco's cheek a fierce scarlet. Droplets of water followed their trail in their descent, racing down to the chin where they leapt and landed on the half concealed forearm trapped between the two men.

Like rain. Like tears.

Which one it was, Madame Pomfrey could not tell.

For at that moment, Harry leaned forward, and their lips locked. The kiss was passionate, their silent yet rapid breaths diffusing into the heat of touching skin, their tongues seeking to taste one other, to unlock the truth behind words and promises that had been drowned by the rain. Draco liberated his arms and braced the neck of his lover, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss while Harry's hands brushed against his hips and up the waist, pushing the wet fabric to expose pale flesh underneath. They then ghosted sideways until they reached Draco's heart; the palm blossomed against the flesh to feel the heartbeat.

Draco drew himself closer, offering the source of his life to his lover's touch. At the same time, his lips left Harry's and his head fell to nest against the crook of the neck, his fingers demurely feeling the fabric of Harry's jeans as one by one the clasps of his pajama top gave way to gentle twists of fingers. The pressed collar collapsed in its moisture, the emerald silk trailing its fall and collected below the elbows; the chill that followed was chased away by hands that caressed every inch of the exposed skin. He found the finest source of warmth as his head tilted to reclaim the kiss.

With a soft nudge on the dip below the spine, Harry repositioned the pair such that Draco was caught between his lover and the open window. The brunette's hands sank to the hips and in one clean motion, the silk bottom laid in a rumpled pile on the floor. A soft clang of the release of a belt buckle followed.

Draco let out a gasp as Harry lifted his waist and settled him against the window sill. He was almost completely under the rain, and his hand rose to push his hair backwards. His eyes locked in a gaze to those in front of him, then they shuttered close as his thighs slowly parted into a welcoming V.

Harry pressed his hips snugly against the blond and began to, ever so slowly, roll against Draco's most sensitive skin. Draco threw his arms around the man before him, as soft soothing kisses showered his forehead. He relaxed and responded to the motion; Harry leaned further in desperate attempt to move even closer, his arms encircled around Draco, who arched back even more with the added weight; he was almost facing the night sky, his resumed tears cleansed by the rain that fell from the heavens.

Then, with a sudden tightening of his arms, Harry pulled the hips of the blond forward as he pressed in. Draco moaned at the intrusion, in hurt and pleasure, and the muscles on his legs contracted, causing his feet to lose contact from the carpet below. Harry remained as his only balance point and Draco held on as tightly as he could, one arm clutching the soft cotton of the worn T shirt while the other cupped the head, his fingers clutching and releasing the dark hair to the rhythm of thrusts deep inside him. The pace soon hastened to a frenzy, the motion furious with desperate love and unspeakable pain as Harry's mouth attacked the smooth line of Draco's neck and Draco screamed into the crying skies.

Time froze as Draco's muscles pulsated at the release, both his and Harry's. As his energy drained away, his fingers slackened in exhaustion and in the daze he felt himself skidding from a lifeline; his near fall was caught by Harry, who tightened his embrace and held him closer, the two bodies pressed so close that nothing could pass between them. The two breathed in silence for a moment, before Harry separated from Draco and pulled him inward.

The rain had stopped, and the sudden stillness was overbearing. The blond's head was once again bowed low, its fallen tresses limp and dripping, and Harry released his arms when the other man had regained sufficient strength to support himself. It was then when the fabric of the pajama top made its last fall, and the shadow on the forearm morphed into reality. A snake entwined in a skull, etched deep in the pale skin. The Dark Mark.

Harry stepped back to adjust his cloths and slip on his glasses. Green eyes then returned to the man who he had so much wanted to mark as his own, whose shoulders, like his, was heaving in violent but quiet sobs. He reached out, held the marked arm that had been resting on the sill, and pressed his lips once at the pulse point just above where the ink began.

Then he let go. He turned towards the privacy screen, his feet dragging on the carpet that stained dark with dripping water. The spectacles were fogged, and the face behind it fell deep into a trance. As he exited, he didn't even notice a completely stunned Madame Pomphrey; he pushed her out of way and left the hospital wing.

Draco remained seated on the sill, his legs spread like the wings of a butterfly whose flight had been hindered by an unexpected storm. As the footsteps faded, his shoulders folded in, his arms pressed against his face as pale fingers knotted through the hair.

Finally, he let his tears flow freely.


	3. Chapter 2: The Tribute

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

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**  
THE SONG OF SOLOMON**

**Chapter 2: The Tribute**

Minerva McGonagall had brought with her the day's issue of _Daily Prophet_, a wizarding radio and a bagful of lemon drops. Though celebrations abounded in Hogwarts and everywhere else in the wizarding world, she thought she wanted to be here, even if for just a moment, to pay respects for the one with the vision and wisdom to foresee it all.

Minerva smiled, the grimness of gray skies could do nothing to darken her mood. She tuned the radio to the chamber music station, carefully laid the sweets at the foot of the tombstone, and was about to prop the newspaper that shouted "VOLDEMORT VANQUISHED" against the structure when she saw a small bunch of lily of the valley, white and delicate, leaning inconspicuously against the marble.

Her heart warmed to the thoughts of the early morning visitor. She held the flowers against her nose, letting the sweet scent fill her senses with the promise of life and hope before returning them to their position. The newspaper had been charmed to act as their latest backdrop, the bold name in the headline only served to accentuate the purity of the petals brushing against it.

Satisfied with the arrangement, Minerva stood. She was about to leave when her ears caught the distant flapping of robes in the wind.

She turned and narrowed her eyes. From afar she could see a head of blond hair that could belong to no one but a Malfoy. Her thoughts immediately turned to the Elder Wand, and the mayhem that would ensue if it once again fell into the wrong hands.

She frowned as her body morphed and disappeared onto the branch of a tree.

It was the younger Malfoy. Minerva observed, with a hint of satisfaction, the blisters on the usually pale face and the slight limp in the gait. He must have suffered an attack during the battle.

To her surprise, Draco caught his steps on the other side of the tomb, his head bent to a humble bow. Grey eyes focused on the speckles interspersing among the earth, painted by fresh rain falling from the skies above. Lips moved to speak, yet the customary drawl was reduced to a whisper; the silent words it labored were lost among the tinkles of water against marble.

Minerva's spine once again straightened in tension as the young man finally approached the headstone and fell on his knees.

If he dared to dig Dumbledore's grave...

Instead, Draco retrieved an envelope from his pocket. His fingers fumbled slightly as he unwrapped the hawthorne wand, rotated it such that the handle faced the tombstone, and planted it into the soil beside the lily of the valley.

The rain was falling hard now. The headline of the newspaper had dissolved into a smudge of black, threatening to taint the elegant whiteness of the flowers resting upon it. The blond curled his lips as his vision rose to follow the drift of storm clouds above.

As if an afterthought, he picked up his wand for the last time. His other arm extended to a slant, the sleeve of his robe falling back to expose a stretch of marked flesh into the rain.

Minerva crouched, her hind legs bent for attack as Draco spelled.

The flesh tore, blood gushing out from a thin, long gash that severed the snake and skull neatly into two. Scowling in pain, he fell against the wet earth; his trembling hand struggled to surrender the wand once more but only managed to prop it against the flowers, the scarlet on its handle briefly staining the petals before being cleansed by the rain.

Draco stood, his jaws clenched as he limped towards the lake, chin held high as Minerva had always known him. The grey eyes never once turned to look at the grave again, nor inspected the wound that was held pressed against his lips, bleeding tears on the path he was treading.


	4. Chapter 3: The Gift

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

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**  
THE SONG OF SOLOMON**

**Chapter 3: The Gift**

Gregory Goyle munched down the last bit of his cake and wiped his mouth with his palm. It was filled with chocolate, and fine chocolate it was too; he had not had such a good one for ages.

He didn't know who had sent it, along with dozens of his favorite sweets and some unfamiliar foreign treats that were equally delicious. Perhaps Draco, who had shared his sweet tooth during their Hogwarts years; but their Slytherin ringleader had seemed to disappear after the war.

His eyebrows crooked in concentration as his palm closed against the bare handle of the emerald basket, his mind trying to recall the adornment that had embellished the fine wooden weaves before. The way the silver ribbon interlaced into a knot had been a distinct reminder of his friend, who had years ago taught him how to weave the Malfoy emblem once; the method had long been forgotten but the result had looked just as breathtaking.

He gave a shrug and sucked his teeth for the last lingering taste of chocolate. Who cares.. unless he could owl that person to send him more. He would however have to write a letter and that thought did not please him at all.

Perhaps he would be sent another one; afterall, one should always hope for the best and this basket had been nothing short of a blessing from Lady Luck. He tilted his head and surveyed through the window of his jail cell the small patch of sky, the same greyish hue as the day his gift had arrived.

It had not listed a sender, and was therefore considered a potential Dark object. He was called to the interrogation room and there sat Potty, their new junior auror, with the delivery on the desk.

Once settled in the seat Gregory could not take his eyes off the basket, its contents already making his mouth water. He was vaguely aware that the speccy git was gawking in the same direction, although he seemed far more intrigued by the loops of silver slithering along the curve of the handle. He could have said a word or two, but Gregory was not exactly paying attention and his voice would have been drowned out by the pitter-patter of rain against the roof.

Gregory had always considered himself a man of action and that day he behaved predictably as such. His patience dissipated after minutes of silence; he rolled up his sleeves and reached to grab the basket, the silver knot yanked loose in the process.

Potty rose, a violent straightening of his body that caused his chair to crash backward. He withdrew his wand and directed it against the other man. Though the incantations he uttered were lost to a roll of thunder, within a second the basket had smashed on the floor and Gregory was yelping in pain. The smell of burnt flesh filled the room.

The door burst open at the commotion and in came the Weasel. Potty stood frozen, staring at the charred tattoo on the prisoner as he gripped his own weaponed hand by the wrist, pressing it hard against his shirtfront, the tip of the holly wand heaving violently with the rise and fall of his chest.

Gregory's mouth formed a gaping hole as his mind attempted to register what had come to pass. He looked up and saw the dim reflection of the intruder on the mist on the window, an anxious frown settling on the freckled face as the eyes took in the dense, heavy slant of rain outside. Gregory squinted, but before he could discern the cause for alarm the window faded, the wet glass coagulating into a solid wall. His mind churned in attempt to articulate a protest regarding his treatment, from the assault to the deprivation of Atmospheric Charms, but the Weasel brushed by him without a glance and seized the arm of Potty, still deep in trance, and tugged him out of the room. The door shut behind them with a loud slam.

That was all Gregory knew of that day; he was sent back to the jail cell and the next day another auror came by, offering him to keep the basket if he wouldn't spread the word about the incident, particularly the details of his injury.

He happily agreed. He couldn't care less about the reputation of Potty, although he prided himself in knowing their Saviour's weakness. That git was probably scared of thunder, would go nutter whenever it rolled… maybe that was why he fell off his broomstick during that Quidditch match in their third year.

He wondered if the Dark Lord knew. Probably not; he remembered the morning sun prickling his eyes as he regained conscious shortly after the Battle of Hogwarts. They should have checked the weather before heading there.

Alas, Gregory shook his head and reached for a chocolate frog. Too late.


	5. Chapter 4: The Union

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

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**  
THE SONG OF SOLOMON**

**Chapter 4: The Union**

Bill Weasley drummed his fingers quietly on the emerald silk, humming a silent tune in his warm, champagne-induced haze.

The party had reached its most frenzied state; dress robes were unbuttoned at the collar, and carefully coiffured locks were becoming undone at the waning powers of hair potions.

The bride was on the dance floor, her wavy tresses a lustrous raven canopy as one of her brothers held her at the waist and twirled her body in mid air. Merry laughter rang across the room.

Bill had always been fond of her. She was one of the foreign liaison for Gringotts, and their work had brought them together on several occasions. A seasoned traveler with an extroverted spirit, she had never run shortage of conversation topics whenever they met.

He was therefore mildly surprised when three months ago, at their lunch meetup, he was greeted with a blush rather than the usual bright smile. She pushed an envelope in front of him.

A wedding invitation.

Bill chuckled as he tore it open, only to have his teasing remarks froze at the lips when he read the name of the groom.

Thus there he was, attending the union of a friend and an enemy.

She hadn't wasted much time defending her choice. Draco Malfoy was a trader of rare potions ingredients, those heavily regulated or banned by the ministry but were nonetheless in high demand due to their healing properties. It was an occupation to which Magical Law Enforcement had always turned a blind eye, its significance understood but never endorsed.

Bill had said nothing, his only gesture a forceful rub on the scars on his face.

The couple had met at a Portkey station in a storm, he apparently mesmerized by the rain pounding on the rooftops down the hill as she collided into him during landfall. There had been no awkward exchanges, no words of apology; her eyes had been fixed to the striking features in front of her, and he had countered the stare, his expression contemplative and his forearm frozen at an awkward angle against the lower half of his face.

They could have stood there for hours. The storm passed, and when the first ray of sun broke through the clouds, the man reached out, grabbed her wrist and led her to a nearby restaurant.

He was a drifter and so was she; both wanted a home. They had decided to marry soon after, the wedding preparations were simple and carried none of the extravagance Bill would expect from a Malfoy.

Draco's only insistence was that the wedding must take place on a sunny day.

Fleur's gentle rub on his back brought Bill back to the moment. He smiled at her as his vision searched for the groom. There he was, leaning against the wall in an obscure corner, champagne flute in hand, his face tilted towards the clear moonlight.

Well, Bill thought, at least his wish was granted. His eyes returned to the dance floor and met those of the bride, who beamed at him and winked.

Apparently hers was too, he sighed inwardly, so who was he to worry or complain. He purged his mind of all previous thoughts, leaving behind a sole desire to wish them well. His lips curled into a smile and he raised his glass with a nod.

Afterall, Bill thought as he leaned to give Fleur a peck on the cheek and his hand reached down to pat a pregnant belly, he was hardly qualified to doubt a happily ever after.


	6. Chapter 5: The Vow

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

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**  
THE SONG OF SOLOMON**

**Chapter 5: The Vow**

Kreacher found his master huddled against the corner of the room, his body half leaning against the window and his quill feverishly scribbling on a stack of parchment propped against jean-cladded thighs. Half of the profile was obscured by bridesmaid dresses hanging on the door of the armoire, and the white dress robe Kreacher had ironed hours ago remained strewn on the bed.

The room was almost dark, the night descending as a storm raged outside the windows. The only source of light was a soft _Lumos_ from Harry's wand, which had settled in the furrow between the pages of a book that was held open on the carpet. Eyes darted sideward towards it occasionally, a slight frown setting on the concentrated face before they returned to the parchment and the quill took flight again.

Kreacher hesitated at the doorway, not wanting to interrupt. Pieces of parchment had been filled already, crumpled into small spheres of checkered black and white that littered across the floor.

Harry's distress deepened as time passed; his chin sank lower towards the chest and his hand paused with increasing frequency to push up the spectacles and massage the eyes behind them. The task resumed only after a barely audible sigh and a quick glance at the rain streaming down the glass pane, his lips quivering in sync with the fluttering of feather in his grip, the scratching sound becoming more audible as the pressure mounted between the tip and the parchment.

The snapping of the quill startled both Harry and the house-elf alike. Kreacher gave a small yelp and his master jerked his head to face the doorway. In the shadows the green eyes were brilliant as ever; yet, Kreacher noticed, they were highlighted below the lashes by a faint shimmer that was never there before. It dissipated as Harry rose, blinking furiously, the corner of his mouth lifted in poor imitation of a smile as he posed a question by a series of quick hand gesturing - first a few downward points, followed by repeated rotation of his fist by the mouth. His throat was throbbing violently despite the silence, as if an invisible lump had been stuffed down his mouth and he had lost the ability to speak.

Kreacher stared in confusion but his master did not seem to notice; in quick paces the man fleed the room, his steps almost breaking into a sprint as they made the descent down the staircase. The elf watched the shadow cast from the lights below disappear; Harry must have somehow understood his invitation then. He was probably famished too.

The servant entered the room and with a snap of fingers collected the discarded balls of paper at his feet. The tip of Harry's wand was still emitting light, and Kreacher could see on the page the title_Song of Solomon_, and a block of text below that was framed by a haphazardly drawn square, above which "the vow" was written in Ginny's flowing script.

The same passage was copied over and over again on the piece of parchment Harry had had on his lap. The scrawl was barely legible, with blobs of ink accumulating at corners of alphabets where the quill had pressed too hard, and it terminated abruptly with a smudge of black that was undoubtedly the consequence of the breaking of the tip. Kreacher could make out some of the words, something about seals over heart and arm, flames of fire and waters that quenched and drowned. He tutted in disapproval and gathered the parchment into the rubbish pile. No wonder Harry had such a difficult time committing them to memory - they were unnecessarily complicated. Without a doubt, the handiwork of Muggles.

Hopefully a dinner of steak and kidney pie and treacle tart would cheer him up and give him strength, Kreacher thought. He muttered a _Nox_ to the holly wand, and as he shrunk the refuse into a portable heap, he looked out of the window and saw a crescent moon peering behind disbanding clouds.

Kreacher gave a satisfied smile as he Apparated with a pop. It would be beautiful tomorrow, and a hero like his master certainly deserved a life filled with sunlit days.


	7. Chapter 6: The Offer

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

**  
THE SONG OF SOLOMON**

**Chapter 6: The Offer**

Al held on to the golden Galleon as tightly as he could, as though it would grow little feet and run away if he'd let go. It was his first visit to Honeydukes, and that coin was for him to spend all alone.

Surveying the shelves towering over him, Al found it quite impossible to decide whether he wanted sugar quills or chocolate frogs, acid pops or pepper imps. Perhaps he should find his brother and they could get different ones to share. He looked around; his parents were chatting with Mr. Flume at the counter, but James was nowhere in sight.

Faint noises drifted into his ears amidst the sound of falling rain as he ventured to the other end of the shop, and quickly crescendoed into a rowdy mix of chattering and laughter. Soon the door burst open to a swarm of students, all dressed in Hogwarts robes, their long arms instantly stretching over his head to attack the merchandise.

Al cowered to the corner. Crowds always scared him, and the loud cheers and yells did nothing to stop his heart from thumping. He stretched his neck towards the counter, but no matter how hard he tried he could not see his dad, who he knew could save him from anything and everything.

Clutching the coin close to his chest, the boy settled on the carpet and willed his eyes away from the customers. Under his breath he began to chant what his father had always told him, that Albus Severus Potter was brave and no one could ever hurt him and someone would always be there…

He paused to peer from behind the rim of his round spectacles. Not this time, he thought, his heart sinking. The only other person lingering in this corner of the shop was a man dressed in a traveling cloak, his body half leaning against the wall to balance the weight of a rucksack strung across his shoulders. His back was facing Al, who decided to crawl a small distance on the carpet and join his gaze to the pavement outside.

A fight had broken out. Through the foggy glass Al could see two fuzzy lumps rolling on the cobblestones and all over each other, their equally black shade made it impossible to distinguish which was which. Occasionally a strip of red would flash into view among the mist; other times, a band a green. Other students had gathered around to watch, some of them pumping their fists and hollering; it was clearly a spectacle quite familiar to all of them.

The boy blinked and looked away. The man by the window didn't seem to enjoy the scene much either, although his line of sight remained curiously even. Al also noticed, as he glanced at the sharp profile sprinkled with the glistening reflections of raindrops, that there was a slight movement at the corner of the mouth; it was as if the man wanted to say something or to smile, but the skin around the lips was too heavy to lift.

Al had found that expression on Dad before; James had taught him to look out for it, the perfect moment to ask for presents or show bad school marks. His brother also added, after heaving a loud sigh, that it's a shame that there couldn't be thunderstorms everyday. Al hadn't quite understood what that meant.

A rustling broke the child's stream of thought; the man had raised an arm to his face, to wipe his nose perhaps? The noise had come from the two bags dangling from his wrist. Al watched in horror as a chocolate frog fell out from the smaller one and its owner didn't seem to notice.

What if all the sweets were gone before the man reached home?

He thought he should do something, his mind shuddering at his own imaginary disappointment if his father were to come home with an empty Honeydukes bag. A simple alert would do; yet Al could never talk to strangers, his already timid articulation truncated to stuttering fragments of _Er_s and _Um_s whenever he tried.

Another sweet fall out; this time, a chocoball. Al panicked.

Then he saw them, two long silver ribbons that suspended from the sleeve of the traveling cloak, draping smoothly over the very pale skin on the back of the hand. They were beautiful, and the softness of the fabric made them look gentle, harmless.

Al bit his lips and stood up, his breathing hastened with excitement and anxiety; he drew near to the man and, his hand lifted in slow motion, tugged on one of the silver ribbons in front of him.

The man gave a start and looked down with a slight frown. The features staring at Al were unlike anything the boy had seen before; the contours of nose, chin and cheekbone were so severe and the hair and eyebrows so fair that they appeared to be carved from marble.

Al gulped, his tongue instantly twisted into a tight knot. All he could do was to jab a small finger to the broken bag and then point at the sweets on the carpet.

Grey eyes softened in a gleam of realization as the man retrieved his wand and cast a silent spell to mend the tear. His hand then disappeared into the bag to rummage through the contents; upon reappearing, the outstretched palm towards the boy was laden with sweets.

Violent blush attacked the soft cheeks as Al resisted the temptation to take a gift from a stranger. He shook his head, as if to answer, or rather, to convince himself, and made a courageous attempt to keep his eyes downcast despite their flickering every now and then to the offered generosity. With both hands he pressed on his oversized spectacles, stopping them from sliding down the sweat-slicked bridge of his nose.

The man opened his mouth to verbalize his offer. Yet no words came, the sounds abruptly held back as if a mistake had been made before. Instead, the hand lowered and gave a cautious nudge.

Al's stomach churned. He bit his lips and shook his head again, this time more forcefully, feeling his already shaggy hair becoming even more disheveled at each turn. He must look like he was about to cry, for the man sank to his knees almost immediately, his rucksack fell on the carpet with a muted thump. The free hand extended, and after a moment of hesitation, ran its fingers slowly through the black locks to smooth them out.

The gesture, reminiscent of his dad and so familiar to Al, slowed the erratic breathing that heaved the small chest. That corner of the shop became a safe haven, pulsating in the steady rhythm of warmth gliding along his scalp. The boy's eyes finally met those of his hero of the moment, and his lips curled shyly upwards in gratitude.

Much to Al's surprise, the stranger smiled back. Smooth crescents appeared on the austere and impassive features as the stern eyes arched and the corner of the mouth lifted. Al looked in wonder as faint lines of crow's feet crept into view, like the final touches of a chisel that brought life into what had been a statue just seconds ago.

Al grinned as his last trace of discomfort dissolved into the sweet scent of confection in the air; a sudden burst of courage shot through him, and he reached out to touch again the tails of the silver ribbon in front of his eyes, swaying gently in sync with the hand brushing through his hair. He curled it around one of his chubby fingers and watched it untwist in a spiral as he let go.

The stranger chuckled. With the fingers of his other hand he pulled at the ornament on the sleeve, and the clasp gave way in a soft metallic clink. When the palm saw light again there spread the knot, embellished by its two long slender tails, a bejeweled butterfly perched on the previously offered sweets.

Al could feel heat returning to his cheeks again. His lips worded a silent _Thank You_ as he took the gift from the outstretched hand and placed it in his own, the soft silver so dissimilar and yet so flawless against the solid gold of the Galleon. He took a deep breath and was determined to say something coherent when he heard his name being called in the distance, a whisper among the commotion that perhaps he was the only one who could hear.

The boy turned and ran into the crowd, eager to find his parents and introduce his new friend. But when Al was finally in his dad's embrace, his forehead showered by the soft kisses from his mum, all was forgotten. It was not until that night, when he was saying goodnight to his little sister in the crib and realized that he had forgotten to get sweets for her, that he remembered the beautiful gift from the stranger in the shop. He planted the silver ribbon under the blanket.

The next day came, and it was gone.


	8. Chapter 7: The Affront

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

**  
THE SONG OF SOLOMON**

**Chapter 7: The Affront**

Ethan Burkes sat on the cobblestone, panting as he healed the wounds on his arm. Bones was doing the same on the opposite side of the narrow pavement, his Gryffindor tie hanging out and completely askew. He was mouthing what was undoubtedly a soliloquy of the finest and most heartfelt profanities.

Other students had dispersed, heading off for more urgent matters that involved butterbeers and dungbombs. Ethan couldn't fathom why they had gathered in the first place, it was not as if a fight between him and that git would warrant a special occasion. Filch could attest to that.

He glared at passerbys who dared to look their way, fiddling with his Slytherin tie that had been yanked loose during the brawl. Bones was also recovering, stretching his legs and sucking lazily on a blood-flavored lollipop purchased before the fight.

Contrarily to what most people believed, they knew of life's priorities.

A family of four had just exited Honeydukes. A boy was skipping along on his own, followed by a younger child fast asleep in the arms of his mother, a head of dark hair nestling snuggly against the crook of her neck and a small fist clutching the back of her sweater. The father trailed behind, carrying a few bags of sweets; his pace slowed as he caught sight of the two of them.

Ethan lifted his chin and squinted. From the distance he could only see the outline of the face, the details lost in the mist from the rain that had dampened to a drizzle. He glowered back, and just to make sure his sentiments were unequivocally understood, he raised his hand to make a rude gesture.

A kick on the ball of his feet jerked his body sideways. Bones was rolling his eyes at him, the stick of lollipop jutting out of his pursed lips spinning at the tongue's play. Without bothering to remove the sweet, the hands motioned instead to converse. Ethan scoffed at the obviousness of the first impression that drew attention to the spectacles worn by the man. Bones rewarded him with a harder kick and pressed on, his finger sketching an imaginary lightning bolt on the forehead.

Ethan's jaw dropped in comprehension. His family members were proper merchants of course, but he very much doubted their trade would ever win approval from the Ministry, let alone the Man Who Lived. His hand froze in mid air.

Bones rose, muttering what was unquestionably another set of his choicest colorful vocabularies. He stepped across the pavement and grabbed Ethan by the collar, dragging him up and away from the royalties of the wizarding world. Any protests from the Slytherin were silenced by the lollipop that found its way into his mouth, overwhelming his senses with the fiercely seductive taste of blood.

As Ethan retreated in a stagger, he turned to look again at the target of his previous insult. His eyes must be failing him - for the Great Harry Potter was grinning, and after a quick sideward glance to make sure nobody could see, he returned a flick of finger in Ethan's direction before breaking into a brisk walk to join his own family.

Bones must have given him a concussion, Ethan concluded. As he rested a palm on the hips brushing carelessly against his own, he made a silent vow to himself that the Gryffindor would pay for it tonight.


	9. Chapter 8: The Gridlock

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

**  
THE SONG OF SOLOMON**

**Chapter 8: The Gridlock**

Ginny held her husband's hand tightly in her own as the two of them sat without a word in the magically enlarged car. She could hear the soft tapping of keys from Lily, who was lounging behind them with a computer. Ron was in the driver's seat bantering loudly with Hermione, who only paused to scream whenever the car veered or dipped into potholes concealed by the puddles of rain. Their words shot at each other in such rapidfire succession that they sounded like gibberish, despite the biting accuracy of said accusations that could only come from years of observation. Ginny chuckled and tuned them out.

The traffic around King's Cross was in chaos; no one had expected such a terrible storm after the brisk and sunny autumn morning. The car braked suddenly with a loud screech. Ron swore, Hermione shrieked, and she and Lily gasped. Harry however remained motionless, his eyes fixated on the waterdrops tumbling down the window, the blank face a stark contrast to the wildly racing pulse Ginny could feel under her palm.

She closed her fingers further, feeling the slight tremble of his skin, battling the demon that threatened to lash out from underneath. Rain always brought the worst of it, something that had been planted inside him during the war years. She had never asked what it was, just as Harry had never asked what caused her to sink into a corner of their room in the depth of the night, when her quill and Quidditch journal transformed into feathery touches and crisp voices that invaded her senses and unleashed her guilt. He would sit with her, enveloping her with his solid warmth and earthy scent, speaking in his baritone whisper until twilight came and her ghost was gone.

Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley were the symbols of Light because they had seen and defeated Darkness; more importantly, they had understood the temptation of it.

Yet Harry seemed more bothered by the rain on this day than usual; through the years his once ferocious tantrums had reduced to a quiet bemusement that, Ginny thought smiling inwardly, the children had quickly learnt to take advantage of. Al's departure must have been difficult for him; he had been quiet since they saw the train off on Platform 9¾, and had barely uttered a word through their lunch in the station. Watching Malfoy's son heading to Hogwarts probably did nothing to calm his nerves either, although Ginny caught a glimpse of Scorpius embracing his parents before boarding the train and she was taken by his smile, a toothy grin that was nothing like the smirk of his father.

Sometimes, things were so much more than what met the eye. She heaved a sigh and looked out her side of the window; they would just have to wait for this storm to pass, and all would be well again. Until the next one.

The rain was pouring down even more heavily than before. The traffic was a deadlock and the pavement was filled with scurrying pedestrians, their umbrellas proved utterly useless against the high winds. Ginny's attention was instantly drawn, however, to a couple squeezed just inside a narrow alley, shadowed but hardly discreet. Even through the beaded glass there was no question what the two were up to; the woman's back was pressed against the grey wall, her exposed thigh wound tightly against the waist of the man whose hips were pushing hard and fast against her. Her dark hair tangled with his light blond, his black cloak crumpled against the pale skin of her breast that was barely concealed by a torn top.

Ginny blushed slightly but instantly realized why the couple had captivated her interest. While the man was drenched like others on the street, the woman had remained dry despite the downpour; also, no one on the pavement showed any signs of noticing them. They were wizards and a muggle invisibility charm had been cast for privacy.

Just as Ginny looked away, her eyebrows lifted in amusement, a scene of that morning flashed through her mind. She frowned as her fingers searched for the button to lower the window. The thunderous drumming of raindrops against concrete and metal instantly drowned out the yells from Ron as she leaned to peer through the slit.

The couple was reaching the height of their pleasure; her lips were sealed tight against his, his fingers clutching her raven curls like a drowning man clinging on to his lifeline. Their bodies moved in frenzied unison, violent in its urgency, the rhythm becoming more erratic with each thrust until they tensed and froze, their heads slung back to face the weeping sky.

The man recovered first, but showed no trace of passion or tenderness in his movements. His body broke free from the woman in a vicious jerk before collapsing against the wall, the hands balled into tight fists. His profile was drawn to a grimace as it buried against the flesh on his forearms.

The woman acted neither repulsed nor irritated; instead, her hand reached towards him and her fingers combed repeatedly through his damp long hair. The motion was apparently customary for her; the touch was patient, its tempo steady as the will to endure his tempest. Ginny's suspicion was confirmed when the face turned towards the street; it only added to the astonishment of discovering warmth and courage in the soft round features, glowing resiliently like the sun against the stormy gloom of the alley.

Ginny rolled up the window and remained silent through the trip, heedless to the questions from Ron and later from Hermione as well. Her mind was filled with the visage of Mrs. Draco Malfoy, and she refused to invite ridicule to her antics, no matter how outrageous they could be.

Ginny didn't know why she felt that way, but as her eyes followed the dissipating clouds, she thought the other might understand. She inhaled and squeezed the hand inside her own.

The hand squeezed back.


	10. Chapter 9: The Trial

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

**  
THE SONG OF SOLOMON**

**Chapter 9: The Trial**

The courtroom was still, save for the rummaging of papers by the prosecutor. Despite the chill in the dungeons, his forehead was beaded with sweat.

Narcissa smirked. She straightened up in the chair, determined to conceal the murderous ache in her back after hours of leaning against hard metal. Her chin lifted and she shot a defiant glare at the Wizengamot before surveying the audience of the trial.

It was sparse, for none of their old friends in the Ministry had dared to show up. No matter to her, however, for Draco was there in the nearest row of seats, his wife accompanying him. She was leaning close, a hand patting absentmindedly on his thigh; Narcissa nodded at her and she returned the gesture, her face bright with encouragement.

The eyes of the mother then met her son's, and Narcissa's heart felt a stab of pain. Even in the dimness of the courtroom she could trace the lines of care around his eyes, the shallow creases on the forehead that had widened with the thinning hair on the temples. He had looked so much like his father, yet the years had been kind to Lucius, who had died a youthful if misguided soul. Draco, however, had aged beyond his years.

Who could blame him? Her son had lived in tumultuous times, his tarnished family name banishing him from the only world he had known. He had spent his life in exile, collecting poisons in foreign lands, negotiating with devious buyers who often had little respect for life. Should he meet his death in an excursion, she would expect more schadenfreude than sympathy.

The steel grey in Draco's eyes softened and his lips curled upward towards his mother. The expression was nevertheless sad and careworn.

Perhaps it was the smile that defined his generation.

Narcissa's thoughts returned to the day when Ministry personnel disturbed the peace at the manor. She was used to these unexpected visits; every now and then the Magical Law Enforcement squad would appear at the gates, demanding a search for Dark artifacts.

How could Narcissa refuse? She was just an old lady whose wand had been snapped decades ago. She would unlock the wards for them, and after a few hours of ruthless searching they would always declare certain items worthy of confiscation. A trial like the current one would proceed, and the page of testimony given by Lucius immediately after the war would prove time after time sufficient evidence for the squad to return the next day, vengefully tossing random pieces of what remained of the Malfoy heirlooms into their sack and carrying them away like spoils from a victorious battle.

Imagine her surprise when the party that day included the head of the Auror Division. Nearly thirty years after his first visit, Harry Potter once again graced the Malfoy Manor with his presence.

He was furious.

When the squad made their presence known at the gates, she neglected to venture out and greet them as usual. However, Narcissa soon found herself peering curiously through the upstairs window, trying to make out the heated debate drifting into the front garden. Debate was a rather inappropriate term, for even amidst the loud splattering of the rain it was quite evident that most of the shouting had originated from one person.

She saw him, a thin man almost a whole head shorter than the familiar team of squad members, as the entourage emerged from behind the yew hedges. His face turned and a pair of round spectacles came into view.

Narcissa quickly descended the stairs.

Potter said no more when he saw her at the front door. Upon entering the manor, he was immediately handed a folder by one of the team members; the green eyes then shot a stern look at each subordinate before the hand gave a dismissive wave. The usually rash and loud squad backed away, whimpering something under their breath before disappearing into the house.

Once the two of them remained in the hallway, Potter raised his eyebrows and let out a deep breath; Narcissa could almost feel him deflating before her eyes, the most commanding Auror in wizarding history shedding his camouflage of power to reveal a matured teenager who had once played dead at her feet.

Both opened their mouths, wanting to say something. Words failed them.

Instead, Potter surveyed the portraits lining the walls in quick sideward glances, as if waiting for them to burst into life and shout their paint's worth at him. Narcissa couldn't help but curled her lips in amusement. Potter returned a smile. Despite the brilliant green still sparkling in his eyes, it seemed sad and careworn on the gaunt face, framed by untamed tousles of dark hair that had turned dusty at the temples.

The man waved the folder at her in silent farewell as he turned and strode towards the front door, his figure looking even more diminutive and weary against the backdrop of the magnificent mahogany panel. He swung it open and settled on the step, his chin lifted as his vision followed the movement of storm clouds in the distant horizon. Narcissa retreated to the living room and continued to observe him through a diamond paned window.

Potter did not re-cast a drying spell on himself. His bangs were dripping with rainwater, which fell and formed tears on the coolly reflecting lenses of his spectacles. Moments later he took them off, squinting his eyes to look at the defunct fountain and the overgrown hedges as his fingers proceeded to flip through the dry folder on his lap.

The movement seemed careless as the hand rummaged through the content several times, but it was clear to Narcissa that the man was searching. The gleam in his eyes indicated that the target had been located, the later runs only to ascertain that it had not been mistaken. Indeed, a piece of parchment was soon produced between fingers. The Auror scanned the content once more, his lips ghosting a sneer that was astonishingly Slytherin before the hands below casually folded the paper in repeated segments and tore it apart along the creases.

Narcissa watched, both of her hands pressed on her jaw-slacked mouth, as Potter sculpted from each small bit of parchment an origami crane. The skill was nothing extraordinary, as the paper crafts were commonly used among young wizards for note passing. It was the way Potter carefully divided the tail into two, his eyebrows contorted as he separated the multiple layers of paper and bent each side ever so slightly to form two slender, impossibly delicate trims.

She knew of only one other person who would do that.

Potter gathered the cranes and held his lips close to his palm. Gently he blew, his eyes tightly shut as one by one the cranes took flight into the wind. For a moment Narcissa thought she saw a line of tears rolling down the cheeks, but she gathered it must be the weather playing tricks on her aged mind.

It must be rain, or, perhaps, the hot warm fluid that had melted her vision to a blur.


	11. Chapter 10: The Creed

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

**  
THE SONG OF SOLOMON**

**Chapter 10: The Creed**

The guard yawned at the corner, desperate for a break so he could puff a Muggle cigarette.

He glanced at his watch; the exhibition still had an hour before closing, but the crowd had thinned considerably. The only visitors left in this gallery were a group of friends, likely Hogwarts students of lower years who had gathered for a summer outing; there was also a blond middle-aged man resting on the bench, looking intently through the rain-speckled windows at the streets below.

The young group was mostly female and the guard was not surprised. There had been flocks of teenage girls who had lingered here for the past month, staying much longer than necessary for an educational experience - which if it were, they probably would not have shown up in the first place.

The war was, afterall, just another lesson in history for them.

The guard had actually pulled aside one of the lasses and asked her who Harry Potter was. She looked genuinely confused; then, like everyone else, she congregated in front of the centerpiece and swooned at the painting, oblivious that it was of said hero.

Despite the giggles endured for the past month giving him a permanent headache, the guard admitted it a brilliant tactic for the Ministry to hire Thomas, one of the most celebrated pop artist in both the muggle and wizarding world, to open the 40th anniversary victory celebration. Hopefully, these young wizards would have some idea who Harry Potter was after they studied the exhibits.

The guard pushed his elbows against the wall as he stood straight, and soon he found himself standing once again in front of the painting. Even with the visitors obstructing the lower half of the artwork, he could still appreciate the now famous portrayal of the war hero. The face was youthful and strikingly handsome, the almond shaped eyes shone in a stunning green, the bridge of the nose tall and straight, and the red lips thinned slightly to capture an air of determination. The eyebrows were like two daggers that accentuated the ferocity in the eyes, the jet-black hair a wild yet stylized tousle; the spectacles were barely visible, the frame a feather of slender curve on his cheek. The build was perfect too; the shoulders were wide, the neck long, and the tight shirt he was wearing could barely conceal the ripple of thin muscles bulging on the arms.

To put it simply, the guard sniggered to himself, nothing like the real man.

The guard had the fortune to greet Harry Potter at the launch of the exhibition. Potter had just given the opening speech, stuttering painfully as expected of him on such occasions. He made his round afterwards, a tumbler of firewhisky in hand, the effects of alcohol evident in the reddened ears as he finally set foot in this gallery. The head Auror was average looking and surprising slight for his legendary reputation; with a smile he nodded graciously in the guard's direction, his free hand absentmindedly tugging the grey hair as if not knowing where to place it. His movements were awkward, his demeanor almost shy, and the guard found him oddly endearing.

To the guard's surprise, Potter did not attempt to suppress a hearty chuckle when he saw the centerpiece, shaking his head mildly as he studied his own face; a faint grimace ghosted his features for a split second as the green eyes scanned downward, but it disappeared as quickly as it came. He turned and raised his eyebrows towards the guard, who responded by an exaggerated twist of the neck, surveying the painting before returning his attention to the man, his eyes narrowed as if making a wholehearted effort to distinguish between the two.

In retrospect, the guard did not know what gave him the courage at that moment, but Harry Potter was clearly amused. He laughed and gave a pat on his shoulder as he left, and the guard was embarrassed to admit that he was star struck.

During his hours at the gallery, the guard had replayed that moment over and over again in his mind, wondering why nobody else had reacted to the painting as its subject did. He had been particularly watchful of the expression of the more elderly visitors, those who should remember the frequent headlines about the young hero during and immediately after the war, or had even attended school with him. Occasionally he could find a trace of bewilderment on their faces, but never any objections or ridicule.

Perhaps it was expected, history being written by winners throughout the ages, and he was the odd one who found the artwork rather comical.

The sudden quietness siphoned the guard's thoughts back to the present.

The teenagers had departed, leaving the man on the bench the only visitor in the gallery. He had probably been waiting for the relative privacy; now that he was alone, his hand lifted to adjust his cloak, reaching to pull down the sleeves as he rose. The face finally turned towards the center of the room.

If this man were on the painting, the guard observed, no one would ever find a reason to veer from what met the eye. Handsome was not a proper word; he was not strictly good looking, but rather, his features were so strikingly angular that they were at the same time stunning and terrible. The visage was an artist's dream, an imagery that few could forget, and his own heart skipped a beat under the scrutiny of the cold grey irises. He could feel them judging him, and could almost believe that if they found him unworthy, the hands below would not hesitate for one second to make the kill.

The guard slowly backed to the corner as the man advanced, his well-worn leather boots tapping a soft rhythmic echo on the wooden floor.

The man stood squarely before the centerpiece, his vision first drawn to the face of Harry Potter. The eyes softened, the steel around the pupils rapidly dissolving into a liquid pool of derisive glee. The guard could feel excitement welling up his chest; here came someone who could identify with him.

The smile on the man's face was a cross between a grin and a smirk as the eyes traveled downward.

It froze. The hands hidden under the sleeves closed into tight fists, their white knuckles readily observable against the dark hem of the traveling cloak.

The air was so still that the guard did not dare to take a single breath. After a full minute of deadly calmness, he finally managed to summon sufficient courage to tiptoe behind the man, wondering what could have caused such a soundless yet violent reaction.

The full view of the painting appeared before him. Harry Potter was still there, surreally attractive and well-built, flying on a broomstick. The guard looked down, surveying the backdrop near the base of the painting, filled with details that were equally impressive but few had paid attention to. A devil's fire was burning, sending flames of raging beasts that threatened to devour the young hero and his companion, whose arms held tightly onto Potter's waist from the rear. Despite the face almost fully buried in his back, the flaming red hair and freckles on the flushed cheek left little imagination as to who the companion could be.

The guard was perplexed; he failed to see what could be startling or offensive. Isn't this what fairy tales were made of? A hero and his love, whose heart he had won by a life saving mission into the abyss? The couple that would be hailed King and Queen of the land, who would ride into the sunset for a happily ever after?

A piercing snicker shattered the air around him. Seconds of quietness followed. Then came another snicker. Silence reigned again before the third attacked. Suddenly the man burst into laughter, his head swung back, his palm pressed on his chest as if the scene was so riotously uproarious that he could suffocate from the sight of it. The laugh morphed into a howl between breathless gasps and the space reverberated with the hysteria, chilling and eerie that the guard could do nothing but tremble in his spot.

He watched powerlessly as the man finally turned and strode out of the gallery, his cloak casting a long shadow in the first and last beam of the evening sun.


	12. Chapter 11: The Choice

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

**  
THE SONG OF SOLOMON**

**Chapter 11: The Choice**

Horace Slughorn settled in his overstuffed armchair and poured his finest mead into two glasses, one of which he then set across the coffee table.

The soft collision of ice failed to seize the attention of the man sitting opposite to him, whose hair had over the years turned as grey as Slughorn's own. The dark circles beneath the eyes were nonetheless recent acquisitions, as well as the hint of panic that ghosted the pale features, whispering the fear of losing what had made the man whole.

The brilliant green gaze of Harry Potter held on the marble surface, on the vial of silver powder that looked almost ethereal under the candlelight. Innocence diffused through the multiple layers of invisible shielding charm, betraying neither the toxicity hidden in its essence nor its overpowering seduction unleashed at the first taste.

Beside the vial rested a tablet, rusty like dried blood, as if its once vivid scarlet had been leeched away and abandoned by life. It laid almost invisibly against a moleskin satchel, marked with the bold print _St. Mungo's Hospital_ and a neat line of handwriting: _Ginevra Potter. 3 Pellets Daily._

Harry looked up; the gleam in his eyes made a silent plea, begging for more guidance, more support. Slughorn avoided the gaze and busied himself with a piece of crystallized pineapple that had fallen onto his lap. He swallowed the confection with the words of comfort that threatened to tumble off his tongue.

Slughorn did sympathize; his heart ached for the missing half of the inseparable pair, yet his mind insisted this was Harry's choice to make. Ginny was barely lucid these days, her mind filled with strange visions and dreams that could only be suppressed by the most powerful of all anesthetic, the brown capsule that drained her consciousness as it steadily consumed her life. The burden thus fell on the shoulders of the husband, who had watched his companion succumb to the Darkness that had infected her so long ago, that he had saved everyone else from and no medicine from the Light side could cure.

It had been after a particularly gruesome episode at the hospital that Harry Potter had shown up in his quarters at Hogwarts. His Auror robe was splattered with blood, spilled from Ginny when she struggled against the strong _Incarcerous_ he was forced to cast on her. The usually reticent man was at a complete loss for words; instead, the scarred hand seized a bottle of firewhisky from the cabinet and threw it all down his throat.

It was to drunken ears that Slughorn suggested a visit to his home, where he held in his private store a Class C Non-Tradable Substance that might be of use. It was a deliberate move, to let the Fates decide whether the other man was to obtain the poison from him. Slughorn was a very old man after all, too frail with age to perform another memory modification.

Thus, in this stormy evening, he found Harry Potter on his doorstep.

Contrary to what was expected from a seasoned Auror, Potter had asked few questions; in return, Slughorn had offered minimal information regarding his covert keepsake. He had confiscated it years ago in the Slytherin common room, when Lord Voldemort was at the height of his powers. As Hogwart's Potions master, he was soon able to determine the nature of the delicate powder, a reward from the Dark Lord to his followers who had successfully executed the most hideous crimes in his name. It was meant to ease the aftershock, its addictive properties a guarantee to future loyalties.

Slughorn had preserved the drug as one of his most prized possessions. Not only because it testified the terror of the times, but also, he admitted to himself, it attested to the power and achievement of a former student, whose formidable potions knowledge had originated from none other than himself. The value of the substance only skyrocketed afterwards, when the Dark Lord was forced to abandon its use due to the death toll associated with obtaining the ingredients, which were extracted from various lichens on the cliffs in the Arctic tundra. The recipe for brewing the extract had also been proven impossible to replicate, and many self-made Potions masters had met their death by ingesting flawed creations that either petrified their mind or deemed it so heated in the pursue of additional dosages that the will to perform life-sustaining activities was permanently destroyed.

While many had believed that the art of making the drug was lost forever, Slughorn knew of one man who had both the required skill and resources. Harry's former classmate, the son of the most notorious Death Eater, and family friend to Slughorn's predecessor who had access to Voldemort's potions archives. His name was whispered frequently among the apothecaries circle, in reverence for the list of prohibited substances he was able to collect and smuggle into the country.

He would be the only hope for the Savior of the Wizarding World.

The cost of obtaining the drug, should it be named, would be nothing short of astounding, but Slughorn knew the Potters were affluent enough for almost any requested price. He could not fathom, however, what could motivate Draco Malfoy to risk his life for his once archrival, nor how Harry Potter could entrust his wife's wellbeing to a former enemy.

Harry had not responded to the divulged knowledge with an outburst, as Slughorn had expected. Rather, any sentences that could have been formed were sealed tightly behind quivering lips, the fleeting hope only expressed by an exhausted collapse on the armchair.

The next hour passed with Harry remaining completely still, his gaze fixed upon the silvery powder and the brown pellet on the coffee table. The only sound in the living room was the ticking of the grandfather clock and the pounding of Slughorn's heart, the latter loudening and accelerating by the minute, anxious that he had offended the Auror by once again passing on knowledge that he should not have.

Yet, when Harry finally looked at him, the Potions master could not meet his gaze.

Sadness framed the gaunt features that smiled in understanding, and the beseeching sparkle in the green eyes vanished. The face turned instead to the window, its vision searched the raindrops descending in the shadows of the night, looking powerless and forlorn against the warm yellow glow on the walls that bordered the glass.

A hand reached out, and the fingers closed around the vial.


	13. Chapter 12: The Appointment

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

**  
THE SONG OF SOLOMON**

**Chapter 12: The Appointment**

Mundungus Fletcher spat as he shrank into the corner of the alleyway, cursing the damned autumn rain that had left him cold and wet. It was Friday evening, and loud music drifted from the backdoor of the bar in which his appointment was to be held. His ears, trained sharp by livelihood despite his years, could hear the ringing laughter of young patrons entering the establishment. How he wished to join them for a drink.

For exactly five years he had been doing this, earning a meager commission from both Potter and Malfoy. The payment was not exactly scant, but Mundungus had expected more. Much more.

He was, after all, smuggling a C-sub. If only either man could be more generous and provide him a minute amount for his own trade. All his other patrons did that, unknowingly perhaps, but that was a detail that hardly mattered.

Instead, he stuck his hand into a pocket of his tattered trousers and felt the open Snitch inside; one of them came up with this wretched idea.

The plan was simple enough. The client-seller Muffliato had been set in place, per tradition of trade of this sort; it meant the two sides were never to engage in direct contact with one another. Since Mundungus' association with the Potters was pretty much a known fact, few of his kind would dare to bother him on the streets or steal his possessions. Malfoy would meet him at an obscure location, which could be anywhere inside the country. Once settled, the taciturn blond would show Mundungus the month's supply of the silvery powder, preserved and protected in a vial, which he would then place inside the Snitch and spell it close for transport.

Mundungus had tried to force open the sphere, of course; he had even visited several of his locksmith friends for that purpose. No one had been able to solve the mystery of the close, and Mundungus could not fathom how the offering would unlock for Potter alone. His quest ended because an associate had attempted to sell the Snitch to a Quidditch shop, which had offered to pay a handsome price for such an antique model.

Mundungus Fletcher had never cared much for the Potters, but he put a lot of worth on his own head. He could kiss it goodbye if he failed the delivery.

Ginny had been doing well, fit enough even to play Quidditch with her family. She had no recollection of the nightmares at all, feeling as though she had woken from a long, dreamless sleep. The medication had always arrived on time, and, Mundungus recalled resentfully, in excess such that her supplies had never run short. She used to complain about the medication's stench and bitterness, but Malfoy seemed to have solved that problem as well.

Which made Mundungus drool at the thoughts of the payment that must have changed hands.

He had never seen a Knut of it and the Potters did not seem eager to sell their possessions; nevertheless, Mundungus imagined an entire Gringotts vault filled with Galleons and Sickles, alight with antiques and precious stones that sparkled and glistened. It made the Christmas gifts from the Potters, crates of Firewhisky and finest cigars that would last a lifetime, look rather petty in comparison. The shine of the fine leather coat that Malfoy had thrust into his arms during their last meeting appeared less than impressive too.

Speaking of Malfoy… Mundungus checked the time on his watch and frowned. It was atypical for the blond to be late.

The rain was falling harder now, and Mundungus craned his neck towards the opening of the narrow passageway. He knew it was futile; anyone could spot a Malfoy from miles away.

An hour passed. The music from the bar was louder than ever. Mundungus strained his ears to listen for footsteps. There were none.

Two hours. The music was feverous, its thunderous beat matched only by the violent pounding of his heart.

Three hours. The music slowed, chiming a death knell for the evening. The sound of rain reigned again, in the splatter against rooftops, the splash as drunk patrons stumbled and collapsed over rain-sodden steps, and the sloshing of his shoes that paced up and down the alleyway.

Four hours. The light on the porch of the backdoor dimmed with a click. The alleyway was pitch dark; even the skies were devoured by the gloom, the rain vanishing at almost the same instant.

Mundungus didn't bother to retrieve his wand. With a faint pop he Apparated to the Potters' residence, fearing the tempest that was sure to come.


	14. Chapter 13: The Passing

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

**  
THE SONG OF SOLOMON**

**Chapter13: The Passing**

One would have thought that Draco Malfoy exacted his revenge by murdering Ginny Weasley, but Neville Longbottom disagreed.

Harry Potter was the one he murdered.

True, Neville was planting white roses around her tombstone, kneeling on the soil after he had placed the seedling of a holly tree by her grave. Yet Ginny had died in peace, her soul contented, her heart grateful for the time to say goodbye before her final drift into oblivion.

Neville wiped off the sweat on his forehead, and stole a glance at the shell of a man he had known and respected for decades.

Harry sat slouched in an empty chair that had been arranged for the funeral, his dull and diffused eyes staring at something nobody else could see. Over the past months his hair had turned completely white, the familiar tousle giving way to a lifeless mass that fell with disquieting neatness. Even through the warm fabric, suited for early April, one could tell the body beneath had reduced to nothing but skin and bones.

Neville thought of calling him, of sharing some lighthearted stories from Hogwarts to distract the man from his pain, but the guests would arrive soon and Harry deserved a moment of peace.

Thus he bit his lips and channeled his energy to the delicate lives blossoming in front of him. He looked into the skies, wondering whether it was necessary to irrigate the plants; the blue was half concealed by clouds but a storm did not seem to be in sight.

From the distance came fragmented syllables of loud chatter, drawing his vision towards the other side of the graveyard. The first arrivals looked unfamiliar, their gestures rude and intrusive against the peaceful swaying of grass and branches on the trees. Large black boxes hovered above their shoulders, monsters with large circular eyes that glared towards them.

Neville frowned, and gently pulled on the hem of Harry's robe.

Harry woke from his trance, his face nonetheless blank with confusion.

Neville rose, stretching his straight and tall frame after a brief pat on his dirt stained knees. His hand rounded on Harry's shoulders, pulling and supporting his friend as the latter stood.

He led Harry towards the direction away from the journalists, up the slope but not knowing where exactly they were headed. He could feel the frailty of the life leaning against him, feeding only on the strength brought by the breeze, and decided to preserve its energy by keeping silent.

The winding road soon descended towards the other side of the graveyard.

It was like a different world. Gone were the plain tombstones surrounded by meadows and trees; instead, a jungle of marble stood, of magnificent statues of angels and dignified busts of the departed. Its long shadows obscured the grounds from sunlight, and despite the grandeur of the monuments Neville could see long yellow weeds strewn at the foundation of most of them. He read the surnames of the deceased. Flint. Gamp. Rosier. Crouch. The ancient pureblood families.

He felt a tug on his sleeve. Harry was nodding towards a newly interred tomb a few meters away, a weak but unmistakable glint in the green of his eyes. Neville smiled at his friend's adventurous spirit, and moved his arms to help him forward.

As they drew near to the destination, the names engraved on the marble became increasingly familiar. He looked away from the tomb of Bellatrix Lestrange, telling himself that his hatred for her was buried along with the body, that his role in the world was to cultivate the living, as so many, present company included, had done for him.

Neville's heart froze at the sight of the first Malfoy grave. He instantly regretted bringing Harry here, but it was too late; he could already smell the damp and raw scent of freshly turned soil. Harry was walking almost on his own now, his lips quivering, his white hair fluttering in the wind as magic re-infused his senses. He seemed to know what was awaiting his presence just steps away.

A simple slab of marble rested on the soil. The white stone was accentuated by a slash of grey that ran vertically down its center, mercilessly stripping it of purity; yet, the slender line seemed so fragile that Neville could almost envision the next rain washing it all away. There was no statue, no delicate bas-relief, only three simple lines of inscription adorned the surface.

_Draco Lucius Malfoy._

_Beloved Father, Husband and Son._

_5th June, 1980 to 15th November, 2050._

Harry, who had reached the tombstone ahead of him, had collapsed in front of the marble, his hand outstretched to touch the engraved words. Neville had expected loathing and vengeance in his gaze, he could found none; instead, the eyes were wide with comprehension, sifting through the torrents of guilt and sorrow. Crouching on the soil to press his warmth against the other man, Neville realized the fingers on the marble were not tracing the name, but rather, the month of loss.

A gasp escaped from his throat before he could stop himself; for the first time in the day, Harry looked at him, the corner of his mouth lifted slightly as if attempting a smile.

Then he turned back to face forward. The eyes behind the spectacles shut slowly, as if exhausted by the weight of what they had seen. As the lashes shuttered closed, two sparkling drops leapt down the weathered face. Tears that were held back in the frantic attempts to locate Malfoy in early winter, that evaporated at St. Mungo's on Christmas day when his magical outburst from furiously shattering the empty Snitch against the window permanently damaged the Atmospheric Charm; the brine that went swallowed between the words of farewell to Ginny, that evanesced in the drunken haze among the depths of winter when all he could mutter were the words promise and traitor; that, in the month that followed and up to this moment, remained frozen in the stillness of his withdrawal.

As Harry rested his head against the stone and cried to his heart's desire, Neville retrieved his wand and tended to the trees and grass around them. The weeds were charmed away from the perimeters, the earth below watered with a silent _Aguamenti_. Rays of sun bounced on the pools of water that had gathered like rain on the grounds, their refractions painting with faint strokes of colors the warm vapors that softened the harsh profile of the limestone and the deep creases on Harry's face.

Satisfied with what he saw, Neville settled beside his friend. He realized that while those living warranted cultivation, those who had passed on deserved remembrance, no matter how sweet or bitter the memories were; for ultimately, they justified why life was worth living in the first place.

He then did what he could do best.

He waited.


	15. Chapter 14: The Transit

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

**  
THE SONG OF SOLOMON**

**Chapter 14: The Transit**

He had been told to come here in the middle of a chess game, an almost airy announcement from his opponent that the time had come.

If it hadn't been for Albus Dumbledore already winning the set, Gellert Grindelwald could have sworn that the statement had been a deliberate attempt to stall the moves.

Gellert had been indifferent. He knew their soon-to-be neighbor had also been the owner of the Elder Wand, but that hardly defined the right sort to mingle with. It had always been a mystery to him why Draco Malfoy had so much worth. Albus had died for him, after all.

He had voiced his indignation, of course, but was only responded by that infuriating twinkle in the eye. It explained why he found himself on the second floor of the train station, waiting for the next group of Arrivals. His present company was a sole black moth that Albus had conjured without explanation; it had refused to leave him, its shiny dark wings fluttering left and right on his shoulders.

_Old git_.

Gellert chuckled as he pulled back the blond curls from his smooth features; the same giddiness led him to reach down and feel the floor underneath his chair.

_Ah. Still there_.

The faint echo of footsteps told him that the man he was expecting had arrived. The lobby was suddenly flooded with people of all sorts, their confused faces incessantly scrutinizing their own skin and that of their companions. The travelers were dressed for different seasons, some naked, some so bundled up that they could hardly move. Many were also wounded or disabled, smeared with blood or missing limbs; they struggled on still, their journey to the platform a strange and painful sight to behold. There were occasional exceptions, those who had simply suffered too many mutilations to move on, who, like that bloody child under his chair, had lost their ability to transit and could not fend for their own. Their underdeveloped, often mangled bodies jolted among shuffling feet until carelessly tossed into a forgotten corner, never to be missed or rescued, never to be seen again.

Gellert stood and leaned against the railing. Through the glass dome and the long windows he could see a phantom of the Last World. It was raining.

He searched the Arrivals below him. Draco Malfoy was indeed easy to identify.

The head of silver blond hair was moving slowly among the crowd, the face flushed and gleaming with sweat. He was thickly cloaked, and the gloved hands were carrying dozens of bags and suitcases that continued to bump against other passengers.

He looked tired, somewhat younger than his actual age; it was fitting for a man whose soul had been challenged all his life. It had nevertheless survived as one, Gellert observed; Draco Malfoy had passed on as a whole being.

Albus would be proud.

Once on the platform, Draco let his burden tumble on the floor, freeing his hand to wipe off the sweat beads on his forehead. For the first time he took in the surroundings, peering curiously at the steam engine on the track until he noticed the faint chime of raindrops against glass. His lips curled into a warm smile.

The conductor gestured at him, and lazily recited the schedule and the rules. Draco made some inquiries, his eyes still intent on the water streaming down the windows. A quizzical look appeared on the conductor's face, as if he had just endured a ridiculous request; after a brief moment of hesitation he pointed at the clock with a giant pendulum at the corner. Draco nodded.

The train was ready to board. An impatient line formed on the platform behind the conductor who was checking the names on a list. An old man waited at the door to the compartment, inspecting wounds and healing them as a floating quill and parchment recorded what each passenger had decided to bring along for the final journey.

The blond observed for a while, but never made an attempt to join the file.

The golden locomotive soon began to roll, and the lobby was empty again save for a few scattered souls, those too damaged to make the first available train on time. Their bulging eyes glared at each other hungrily, their disfigured noses sniffing in the air.

Draco ignored them. He hauled the luggage to the corner of the lobby, and then, standing by one of the long windows that adorned the stone walls, he gazed through the glass into the phantom rain.

Slowly he rolled up a sleeve, grimacing as he pushed the thick layers of fabric out of the way. Gellert could see even from the distance the deep etch of the famed Dark Mark. A slender line nonetheless ran across the length, looking pure white against the black ink. Draco caressed the scar with a finger and whispered something under his breath; then, as if without a thought, as if it had been a habit for decades, he brought his forearm to his lips for a soft kiss.

Gellert's grip on the railing tightened; scenes from long ago flashed across his mind.

_A young man sat, his golden locks rested on a palm, as his quill traced a pattern over and over again on a parchment. He was waiting for his lover, a handsome brunet who lived faraway in Godric's Hollow. A promise had been made between them; that one day, they would join forces to fight for The Cause. _

_That one day, they would be together. _

_Years passed; soon it became clear that the dream would never be realized. The two men had become the Night and Day of the wizarding world; the pattern, a pictograph for The Cause, an emblem of Evil. Yet for the young man it would always remain as a simple memento for a love that was never meant to be. _

_When his lover finally returned, he simply surrendered. His Cause. His Kingdom. The heart and divider of what symbolized him, the Elder Wand. _

_One could not engage in a duel that had been lost long before it began. _

_The next time the two met was in this train station. The crimes committed in the Last World had reduced the blond to a crippled, bleeding youngling, who could only manage a snail-paced limp towards the platform. He was ready to give in, his mind delirious with pain and exhaustion, when his blurred vision encountered a familiar gaze from the balcony above. The brunet's hair had turned silvery with age and a pair of half-moon spectacles rested on the bridge of his nose, but the sparkle in the blue eyes was recognizable even from afar. Thus the child clenched his teeth and struggled on, and when he finally disembarked the fifth train, he found himself in the embrace of the other man, who took him in, washed and fed him, and shared with him the wisdom that he had failed to learn in the Last World. He still had a long way to grow, to mature, but he was not worried. They would have the rest of eternity to spend together._

He came to understand Albus' intention of asking him to be here. Draco Malfoy stood whole for the same reason Gellert could now observe him. Their destiny and choices had intertwined in more ways than one.

The peace was destroyed by the commotion caused by the few damaged souls on the platform; they had taken an interest in Draco's possessions and were encircling the blond with outstretched palms. The blond held his lips tightly sealed as his narrowed eyes glared menacingly at them, his pale features turning pink with rage and heat.

All of a sudden, the harsh defiance on the features dissipated. The man looked down and examined his clothes, bewilderment creeping onto the angular face. With the same perplexed expression, his eyes proceeded to turn towards the corner where the heap of baggage rested. Fingers reached down to work the buttons of the black woolen coat, but they refused to unfasten.

He froze briefly at the spot, heedless of the animosity simmering around him. Realization then dawned on the features.

The robbers inched closer, and this time Draco spread his arms, welcoming them to have their way. Soon the bags were all sliced open, the broken leather invaded by greedy arms fighting to snatch the contents. It was difficult to discern from the balcony what hid inside, and for a moment Gellert had reckoned them to be bottomless. Golden goblets and precious china spilled on the floor; Galleons and Sickles showered and rolled everywhere. There were even busts and portraits of men who exploded into a chorus of derogatory drawls the moment they saw light. Entwined among the objects were ribbons and knots of green and silver, and snakes that slithered by occasionally. White peacocks gathered on the handles and hooted at the top of their voice.

As the riches vanished into the bulging pockets of the looters, Draco's clothes seemed to disappear as well. When the bags were almost empty, save for the living things and the shouting artwork, the blond was clad with nothing but a sheer emerald robe. One of the hoodlums approached him, eyes intent on the luscious fabric; Draco shrugged, undressed and handed the garment over. He stood naked, his pale skin alabaster against the fading daylight.

He looked happy.

Satisfied, the looters scurried away. Once again Draco was left alone to gaze out of the window, his marked arm pressed against his bare chest, rising and falling with his steady heartbeat.

The evening was fast approaching, and the lobby dimmed with the darkening skies. A worker on the lobby level flicked a Deluminator, lighting the magnificent crystal chandeliers suspended from the arches of the glass dome. The black moth that had been perching idly on Gellert's hand instantly took flight, its dark wings beating frantically as the slender body swerved between the glistening pendants that curtained the candles.

The heat was too much. The flying became an aimless frenzy; abruptly, all action stopped. The lifeless body spiraled down from the height, landing beside the blond man still watching the rain.

Draco tilted his head automatically, a frown on the face as grey eyes searched for the origin of the deceased insect beside him.

A small movement at his feet caused his vision to return to the floor. The insect had roused from its death and was spinning unsteadily, as if it had just recovered from a drunken episode; dark wings beat unsurely and erratically for a few times before gliding into the air once more.

Lifting his eyebrows in surprise, Draco looked up again, and this time, he saw the adolescent on the balcony. As the moth traced the path between the two men who had shared a dark past, who, like the fluttering insect, had been fatally burned by light, Gellert grinned.

Draco returned a smile.

The lobby once again reverberated with the paces of the next wave of Arrivals and Draco finally took his eyes away from the rain. He pressed his lips against his forearm again, freely and deeply, unburdened from the layers of clothing that had hindered him before. For a moment his face was buried in his marked flesh, his mouth once again moving to form a soundless message; the blond lashes fluttered close and a clear line of tears slid down the cheek. When he looked up again, Gellert was surprised to find that the man was smiling, his features soft and peaceful. As he walked towards the platform, he turned back to take a last look at the rain and kiss his final farewell into the air.

The conductor snickered at Draco's unclothed state, not looking at all surprised. He found the name from the previous page and checked it off. When Draco stepped upward, the old man guarding the compartment examined the bare skin. He scowled at the sight of blackened forearm and raised his wand.

As it was about to tap on the flesh, Draco clutched the tapered end of the wooden shaft and shook his head. For a second the old man studied him closely; comprehension then took over and he gave a respectful nod. Before his ascent up the steps, however, the blond's face lit with a mischievous smirk as a slender finger pointed conspiringly at the temples. The old man laughed and waved the wand to grant his wish.

Draco finally disappeared into the compartment. As the door slid close and the boiler of the engine belched steam to the ceiling, Gellert vanished from the station in a shimmering shower of golden sparkles.

He would like Albus to know that they would have a dinner guest tonight.


	16. Chapter 15: The Remembrance

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

**  
THE SONG OF SOLOMON**

**Chapter 15: The Remembrance**

Wet mud squished under his boots as Scorpius Malfoy treaded up the winding trail. From afar a woman was paying respects to a loved one; she caught sight of him and waved. He returned the gesture, his face warm with a glowing smile.

The road flattened and began to descend to the other side of the graveyard. He pulled closer his traveling cloak, once his father's favorite, still cozy and in perfect condition save for a missing knot on the sleeves. The air around him had chilled, obscured from the sun among the shadows of the giant marble maze.

His pace slowed, his wand swinging idly side-to-side to bend the long overgrowths and make his way as his mind drifted. Once again, he wondered whether he would finally meet the person who had been paying visits to his father.

Someone who, like his father, loved to venture into the rain. The sole bunch of lily of the valley leaning against the tombstone was always sprinkled with fresh drops of precipitation, sparkling like tears on white petals that cupped the tip of the grey stroke running across the marble.

Scorpius had made an internal list of who could be the mysterious mourner, yet one by one the entries had been rejected as years went by. Admittedly, the list had been a short one; Draco Malfoy had died a recluse, and there were few family friends to speak of. The manor had not received a single owl during the days of his father's disappearance, except from that ruffian who reeked of tobacco and eventually the Potters who had disregarded the Muffliato rule. Scorpius had not read any of their letters, for anyone could surmise the intent behind the words. They would only further aggravate him.

His father's body, shattered among the northern cliffs in Siberia, had taken months to locate and return to its homeland. Scorpius had been the only attendee of the funeral in the deserted graveyard, his mother having passed away several years before. Tragedy had left him bitter and resentful, his heart congested by an unvoiced hatred against the Potters. Only via the passage of time did the ill will subside, the invisible wound closed slowly, if painfully, by a scar named reason.

It was then, when, almost against his own will, Scorpius began to feel his lament for the other family. Guilt overcame him, shameful of his compassion towards those who had inadvertently brought about the demise of his father. He had since come to this place almost daily to find peace, to comprehend why his father had taken on such a dangerous task for those who seemed fated to instigate his downfall. That was just one of the many things he could never understand about Draco Lucius Malfoy.

Such as his fascination with the rain.

Scorpius heaved a sigh and tilted his face upward, seeking the rays of the sun that had defeated the blockade by the monuments. The light strengthened him.

The path cleared as he reached the Malfoy grounds, a city of marbles in which his ancestors dwelled in towering vaults that were at once glorious and oppressive; almost hidden, yet distinctive in its humility and striking in its simplicity, was the tombstone of his father.

Even from the distance Scorpius could see the flowers he had expected, small and delicate, almost inconspicuous against the white profile of the marble.

Yet, in the background -

His heart skipped a beat as his eyes narrowed behind the wire-rimmed bifocals.

A small body, curled up in an almost fetal position, was leaning against the other edge of the tombstone.

Scorpius hastened his pace; he half walked, half ran the final stretch up the lane, the grass now brisk and green under his feet.

It was a very old man, even older than himself, wrapped in a plain black robe. The knees were raised and held tight against the chest, the arms resting outstretched and straight on the kneecaps. In one hand was a pair of spectacles. He appeared to be sleeping, his neck muscles relaxed to a bent, his head half resting against a shoulder and half against the limestone. Long white hair concealed the face, the delicate strands flying, waving gently at Scorpius in the breeze. Only a corner of the forehead remained visible; the exposed skin was spotted with age. A faint jagged scar could be seen intersecting an undulated sea of deep creases.

Scorpius did not want to startle the man. He crouched and gently tapped the shoulder.

There was no response.

Scorpius frowned. Lips bitten between teeth, he reached out a hand to close around the shoulder and gave it a light shake.

The old man didn't stir. From the free hand, a shadow fell and landed spreadeagle onto a pool of rain on the soil.

A knot with two long tails, frayed at the ends, its silver shade yellowed with age to a soft gold.


	17. Epilogue

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

**  
THE SONG OF SOLOMON**

**Epilogue**

"Father, your traveling cloak."

"Thank you."

"Can I still persuade you to delay the trip?"

"A life depends on it. You know that."

"I do. It's just -"

"All the Portkeys have been scheduled."

"The storm will subside in a short while. Please, Father. For me."

"Father."

"Yes?"

"Why are you so fascinated by the rain?"

"It's a great equalizer, like time."

"Yes. Everything turns grey."

"You're just like your mother."

"Sorry, Father, but I find the rain depressing."

"See it as a promise. Think of all that is tainted. The rain cleanses."

"Why is it a promise?"

"Because the rain does not last. The sun will return and the dust will fall back in place."

"This is hardly a cheerful perspective."

"It is, from the eyes of the tainted."

"I don't understand."

"There is faith placed on them. Faith generates hope. Hope inspires change."

"But as you just said, the rain will stop - "

"And time erodes. Spoilt or pure, the aged will eventually leave the world for the fresh and pristine. They may remain marked as destiny has elected, but it is their choice what they pass on, as example, as wisdom, to those who inherit from them."

"Father, my apologies, but you are confusing me."

"Do not feel sorry. Sometimes I feel as mystified as you do."

"When did you come to understanding it then?"

"A long time ago, at Hogwarts."

"When you were -"

"That was the time."

"How?"

"It was shown to me."

"Shown to you?"

"Yes. Someone, an enemy, had placed faith in me, more faith than I had ever deserved."

"Was that someone also a lover?"

"Yes. And you are asking too many questions."

"Gossips about my father are rare commodities."

"For a very good reason."

"Come on, Father. A name?"

"No. The discussion ends here."

"I need something to contemplate during your absence. My deprived soul will be undernourished."

"How's your research on Ancient Runes?"

"Please?"

"Listen then. Many years ago, one of the knots on this traveling cloak was passed on to a child who bore a strong resemblance to that someone."

"Isn't it true that only those who cherish the Malfoy name as their own can take possession of these knots?"

"Correct."

"Yet you do not know the child. He cannot be a Malfoy by birth nor marriage."

"Indeed. My only knowledge of him was that he had saved you a bag of sweets."

"Then the knot would have been lost within a day."

"Correct."

"Father, this is not a clue."

"I beg to differ. I am sure it will intrigue you during my time in Siberia. Speaking of which, it is truly time for me to go."

"Promise me you will take care of yourself."

"I promise."

"And write. I'll be waiting for your owls."

"I will."

"Father?"

"Yes?"

"I love you. Please remember that."

**_- Fin_**


End file.
